Of course I didn't watch the State of the Union last night. I already have a pretty good idea of the state of the union, and I'd rather chew glass than sit on the couch and watch that publicity hog gleefully lie, boast, and defame. What a humiliation he is.

Nonetheless, I still have kind of a Trump hangover this morning. The man is like smog: no matter what you do, you can't help breathing in the poison.

How is it possible to lead a decent life under the aegis of Trump? It's certainly very difficult. Given his evil, we must be vigilant. Yet vigilance requires us to pay attention to him, and our attention is what gives him power. We wallow in the swamp, whether we like it or not.

And yet: Bright cold air. A brisk walk. A difficult poem. A vase of tulips. Resistance comes in peculiar forms.

It sounds foolish to say that love can save our nation. It is foolish to say such a thing. But love is what he is not. He cannot comprehend it, nor faith, nor patience, nor generosity. It is terrible to picture these quiet characteristics as weapons. Yet they are what we have. And losing them--or forgetting to call upon them--would be dire.